#Archivist! Dick | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckyschair · 1 month ago

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FLIRTING NEVER GOT YOU NOWHERE

Pairing: Azriel x Day Court! Reader

Summary: You’re an archivist from Day Court visiting Velaris, what happens when you visit a nightclub and things go wrong? Or do they go oh so right? AKA you flirt with Azriel in a bar and sex ensues !

read part 2 now - AFTERGLOW

A/N: I’m lowkey tired of shy insecure self insert fics so I wanted to write a piece about a bold unapologetic bitch who gets what she wants :) This is a very self indulgent fantasy based on rude things men have said to me at bars and how I wish someone had shown up for me. Like yeah I can stand for myself but also what if Azriel stepped up. I also made her bisexual because I’m gay 💅

Content Warnings: smut, cunnilingus & oral (so like m&f receiving), unprotected PIV sex (I am not going to spend my one precious life researching faerie contraceptive methods, so just imagine you’re on magic birth control or whatever. Or don’t, if you’re into that!), female reader (w nipple piercings ooo), gross liberties taken with whatever Day court has going on, unwanted advances from a guy in a bar, uhhh minor gay slur, it’s maybee more OC than self insert cause I gave her a lot of personality, shamelessly self indulgent, no use of Y/N

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. AND I MEAN IT !

Word Count: 12.4k

read on AO3

The flashing lights and lively music that had been a tonic just minutes ago now pounded through your skull, as jarring as the words you’d exchanged with some dipshit at the bar moments ago. You set your eyes back on the dance floor. Where was that group of females you’d mixed with earlier to save you now? You’d come to Rita’s to let loose a little after being cooped up in dusty corners of libraries for weeks now. You wanted to experience Velaris’ famed nightlife. Despite this place coming highly recommended, you were beginning to wonder if you shouldn’t have trusted that shy priestess’ taste in nightclubs.

“Come on, what’s wrong with you?” The male’s whiny voice didn’t quite hit the macho tenor he was aiming for as he yelled after you. You whip back around, incredulity written on your face.

“What’s wrong with me?” you snarl. “I’m so glad you asked, buddy ,” you see his pretty boy attitude shift into a sneer at the moniker, “cause I am not the one. What the fuck is your problem?”

Two steps and you’re back up in his space, just as he had invaded yours moments earlier when you’d rejected his advances. He didn’t seem to enjoy the treatment either, now that it was clear you wouldn’t stand for his shit. You could buy your own liquor. Especially when the other offer came from someone who thought appropriate eye contact involved breasts and an introduction equated to wandering hands.

“What, are you one of those carpet munchers or something?” he tries to deflect. Your eyes narrow. This fucker is in for it now. You can’t blame a guy for wanting to get his dick wet. However, you can blame him for being an entitled bigot about it.

“You son of a bitch,” you start, your face hardening into a sneer, your stance subconsciously shifting to a defensive position. At this, his eyes widen and his mouth parts but before he can speak– “You think just because someone doesn’t want you, they must be categorically repulsed by males?” You snort, eyeing him up and down. “I’m surprised you haven’t been laughed out of this bar yet. I’ve seen dog’s piss land more artfully than your attempts with females tonight. If you’ve somehow hidden some sense behind that ego, I suggest you take it with you when you leave.”

He chokes on air, eyes wide and face taught. Okay. Weird. You know you can be ruthless, but typically your feminine stature in a mini skirt meant you had to work harder than that to make a bastard sweat in fear.

His glassy eyes are focused over your shoulder. You turn your head, keeping the corner of your eye on the sorry male in front of you. When you catch the hulking Illyrian form behind you, you lose that focus as you take in wide shoulders and simmering rage. Rage directed at the whelp still pissing himself behind you at the bar. This new male’s face is a hard mask, his lip curling in disdain.

“You heard the lady.” Your stomach drops at his voice, deep and resolute. “I suggest you take her advice.”

Azriel watches the slimy bastard hightail it out of the crowded club. You miss the pathetic scene of his flight, only catching how the male in front of you relaxes when his target finally makes an exit. You’re glad he’s been keeping his eyes on the other guy, cause you’ve been staring in shock. His muscled arms, toned chest, looming wings, thick thighs– okay. That you could handle. Under ordinary circumstances. But two shots deep, in your most revealing outfit, and through the swirling lights, seeing the tattoos that peak out over the top of his vest at his collarbones and pecs… you swallow, forcing your mind back to the situation at hand as his eyes shift from the figure disappearing behind you.

His pinched brows relax as he takes you in. “Looks like you had it under control,” he says, raising one eyebrow- one glorious eyebrow, a hesitant grin making its way onto his face, as if he was impressed.

“Not the first time I’ve had to put someone in their place,�� you shrug, off balance from the abruptly ended confrontation. Before this male appeared, you’d been gearing up for a fight. Boundaries are simple for you. Cross one and you remind them where you stand. He nods, his face solemn in understanding.

“I saw things getting heated. He looked like he was about to… grab you.” His lips twitch, like he still hasn’t decided if he should do something permanent about it. “Then you were removing yourself from him. And here we are.”

“Here we are,” you repeat. His words, simple as they were, made your spine itch. “Thanks for having my back.” You meant it. You know you could have handled him on your own, but nonetheless, it was nice to have the cavalry arrive right on time.

He flashes you a brief tight lipped smile, the picture of courtesy, “Anytime.” He shifts, like he means to leave you to yourself now that the drama had concluded without any blood.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you blurt out, almost in reflex at the male now in front of you. “As thanks.”

His eyebrows raise momentarily in surprise. Curious, you think. Surely the hunk of male was used to females showering him in liquor and more. You notice the lights around him go blurry– oh shit. Those are shadows. Fuck.

Realization hits you. No fucking way you just asked the High Lord’s inner court shadowsinger if you could buy him a drink. You kick yourself inwardly, but keep your face a mask of coy request.

“There’s no need to thank me,” he says genuinely, slightly shaking his head, even as his cheeks flush lightly, his eyes skirting up your figure. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Of course I don’t,” you smirk, confidence rushing through you at his reaction. “Consider it an unnecessary but kind gesture, tit for tat,” you tease, since you both know that his presence alone certainly scared off the unwanted male, even if he didn’t need to lift a finger. He cracks a grin at that, the minor barb landing exactly as you’d intended.

“Sure,” he shrugs.

A simple acceptance, so casually offered, lands you deeper than you ever could have expected to get with a high ranking member of a foreign Court. He lets you order him something neat, grunting in appreciation when he catches a whiff of the dark liquid in his glass, same as yours.

“Cheers.” You clink your glass to his, hiding your smile with a drink. It burns down your throat, grounding you. His hand had gently hovered over your lower back as you’d taken your seat at the bar again, ready to help but also blocking anyone’s view. Even though he hadn’t touched you, the ghost of his hand may as well have scorched your skin for how you felt it.

“What’s your name?” you ask, suddenly realizing that while you know who he is, you’d never caught his name. Was it confidential information?

“Azriel,” he replies. “Yours?” You tell him, and he hums, repeating it. Your name on his mouth makes your insides burn, but you remind yourself it’s probably just the liquor.

“Am I allowed to say your name out loud? Or is it a court secret?” you ask, and he graces you with another grin. He looks around conspiratorially before leaning in, which sends a thrill through you.

“My friends call me Az,” he murmurs lowly. “Just to be safe in the eyes of the law,” he adds with utter seriousness, only betrayed by the glimmer in his eyes. You laugh at that, excited apprehension making you sensitive to his every word.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Az.” You swear his shadows twitch at your words. You’re enjoying sitting here with him next to you, his body curved towards yours, knees almost touching. Your body relaxes, all the tension of the evening’s events replaced with a pleasant thrum of vitality.

“Likewise,” he says gruffly. You wonder if he feels the same intoxicating energy between you. His hazel eyes blaze even in the dim light of the quiet corner of the bar, his soft hair sticking slightly to his forehead in the heat of the packed bar. You want to brush it away, but you resist the sudden urge. You’re not sure what to say next. Ordinarily, you’re adept at conversation, but the powerful presence before you renders your mind blank.

You’re relieved when he says, “I haven’t seen you here before.” His gaze pins you. What is he seeing? What is he looking for? You’re not sure what he finds that causes him to elaborate, “I would have noticed you.”

“I would have noticed you, too,” you breathe.

“Doubtful,” he drawls in a playfully contrarian tone. His shadows dance along his wings over his shoulders, swirling almost in arrogance around the horns at their apex.

“What? Do they normally keep you hidden in the shadows?” you prod, flashing your teeth. He exhales sharply from his nose, rolling his eyes at your ridiculous implication. Encouraged, you place your hand on his knee under the bar top.

“Do they bully you?” you ask sweetly, dropping your voice quietly in mock concern.

He coughs a little laugh at that, then schools his features into a pained expression.

“Yes. Yes, they bully me.” You bite your lip at the image of him playing fragile, wounded. Your hand on his thigh is on fire. “Horribly,” he adds, voice wobbling.

“Let me know if you need help with that,” you tell him, with equal sobriety. “I could lend you my services, I have a certain skill in intimidation.”

His composure breaks at that, and he laughs from his gut this time, and you join him. The sound is prettier than any music.

“My hero!” he exclaims, gasping through his laughter, grabbing the hand that you pull away from his knee. You giggle as he grasps your hand securely, bringing them to rest together at his knee. His thumb brushes your knuckles while he smiles at you. It takes all your discipline to fight the shudder that threatens your body.

“This is my first time here,” you answer his initial prompt, gesturing around the lively bar. “I’m actually visiting from Day Court.” He quirks his head at that. He looks strangely adorable like this, curiosity cracking his typically closed off expression.

“You’re from Day?”

“Yeah.” Several of his shadows break away from his form to explore you, like you’ve suddenly become an irresistible object of interest to them. “I was an archivist at one of the central public libraries, and recently… I’ve been brought on to work in my Lord’s personal collection.” Azriel looks curious at that, so you continue, “Lord Helion is a generous boss.” His eyebrows shoot up at that.

“Not like that!” you defend, blushing, aware of his reputation. “He trusts me,” you amend.

“So I’m here for your libraries. After…” You’re remiss to mention Amarantha, despite her destruction coloring every sphere of your work. “Well. We all lost something, didn’t we? Now my role is to see what information can be recovered and preserved in my Court once more.”

Azriel listens intently, seeming to understand exactly what gave you pause. He nods as you finish. He also works in information, he tells you, although his intelligence operates in a different arena. You tell him more about your research when he prompts; the long hours in dimly lit rooms, the sweet but introverted colleagues, and, despite what an endless endeavor it was, the excitement when you discover just the right source.

If someone had asked you that morning, you’d have been certain that an archivist’s work would bore anyone with such a high profile role as his, but he sees the heart of your contribution, the valuable work of recovery.

His concentration on your every word would be unnerving, if it weren’t so enthralling. He maintains eye contact even as you gesture wildly with your free hand, snorts at all your jokes, and asks questions to keep you talking. It doesn’t escape you how he poses these questions just as the conversation might have naturally turned towards him. He deftly pulls information out of you with subtle cues, a question here, a curious look there. Once you’ve dazzled him with stories of your life back in Day and bored him with the details of your work, (although you did your best to pepper in your favorite stories, like the time you discovered an entire catalogue of ancient erotic court poetry), you dare to ask him about his own life here at the Night Court.

You expected him to continue deflecting, as he’d been so fascinated by your home court, but he actually responds with some substance. Azriel pauses before pointing out his family, a group of equally breathtaking and imposing fae in a booth at the other end of the bar. He keeps it brief, but shares how he met Cassian and Rhys in a training camp and hasn’t known a moment's peace since. Despite his harsh words, you catch the tenderness even as he grumbles on about Mor and Feyre, and Amren, who isn’t here tonight, which he says you can detect by the lack of frightened screams. You’re equally shocked and delighted by the casual humor with which he treats them all.

It’s not lost on you that he’s just told you about his family when you had asked about him. Yet between his calculated words and their meaningful tone, he’s actually sketched quite an intimate picture of his life and his values.

You like the rhythm of his curt words, how he says a lot with a little. Occasionally, his dry humor will catch you by surprise, and he’ll grace you with a wry smile as you laugh. The spymaster can be quite unexpectedly cavalier at moments, much to your delight. He meets your playful verbal sparring with just as much fire.

After chatting amiably for a while, a comfortable silence falls between you as you nurse your drinks. Azriel surveys the crowded room, ever on alert. You take the chance to brazenly observe him. You can’t pick what to focus on. The slope of his nose fascinates you, you wish you could reach out and trace it. The elegant planes of his face are punctuated by strong features, his brows, chin, and jaw all bold. You wonder how he’s such a successful spy when he’s built so distractingly. Especially with such expansive wings, currently tucked behind where he perches on his stool. His careful arrangement of them does little to hide their imposing glory. You suddenly wish you could see them splayed out in full spectacle.

Over the duration of your research at Night Court, you’d come across descriptions of Illyrians, read about their culture, their physical traits. Their wings were closely guarded, sensitive parts. You were curious about flying, what it felt like, if they enjoyed it. You feel his rough hand on yours still, noticing their size and the thick veins under his scars. You force yourself to reel your mind out of the gutter, instead diverting to wonder at the marks that cross his hands. When you look back to his face, his unreasonably fashionable lashes flutter as he finally catches you observing him. You see high color in his cheeks, but he doesn’t call you out. You finish your drink, noting that his glass is also empty.

You motion your glass to the bartender, chatting briefly while he pours you two fresh ones. You can barely focus on the pleasantries you exchange, aware of Azriel’s eyes on you. His expression is soft, yet heady. Intense. His gaze traces your features in the same way you had just admired him.

You turn back to him eventually to push his drink into his hand. His eyes reluctantly move from your exposed back and briefly over your lips before meeting your eyes. You immediately look away, scanning the bar absentmindedly as you flick your hair over your shoulder. The motion exposes your neck, testing, aware of his gaze still on you. He takes a long, slow drink, his eyes never leaving you. When you swallow, you see his eyes follow the movement of your throat.

“Is this a gay bar?” you ask abruptly.

He chokes, coughing into his arm. “What?”

“Is this a gay bar?” you repeat, your nose scrunching in a wince at his reaction. You’ve never seen him so caught off guard, didn’t know it was possible. He catches your grimace, and quickly recovers, wiping his nose as he recovers from his coughing fit. He nods in confirmation.

“You must think us horrible,” he says, referring to his court, compared to Day, which was much more open around sexual attraction and orientation, he guessed, if their High Lord was any indication. He thought of Helion’s history of advances to him, and Mor and Cassian for that matter. “First, that bastard talks to you like that. Then–”

“No!” you interject. “No, your people are just more… reserved. I didn’t see anything indicating it… but I noticed a few ladies sitting together like we are. So I wondered…” you flounder. It’s his turn to wince.

“Why?” he asks. “Are you looking for a lucky lady?”

“Not tonight.” You hide your grin behind a sip, as his eyes widen almost imperceptibly at your meaning, his pupils dilating. You’d enjoyed your fair share of females, males, others… Your eyes narrow on him then. “Wait, why are you here then?”

“It’s Mor’s favorite club.” He shrugs. “And I don’t mind playing security in case any oblivious males wander in with big ideas in the wrong way.”

“Ahh. So you don’t usually come to the gay club to pick up females?”

He just snorts at that, shaking his head at your nonsense. You don’t miss how his shadows perk up at your choice of words. You grin, showing him your teeth as you prod further.

“So I should feel special then?”

You hear his sharp intake of breath, the only sign he understands your implication. He sets his drink down, his eyes on yours, questioning. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest as you watch his motions, tense with anticipation. You meet his gaze, confident and steady. You’d seen how he had devoured you with his gaze moments ago.

“What are you implying?” he grunts, voice thick.

“I think you’re smart enough to figure it out,” you whisper, your eyes on his.

He only hums, his hand coming to cradle your face, caressing your jaw. The touch arouses your senses, a slow flame flickering to life in your abdomen. His pupils are blown wide, like he’s found a mystical reality in your eyes. It’s his gaze flickering to your lips before finding your eyes again, imploring, that causes you to break. “Are you gonna make me say it?”

“Yes.” He squints, unyielding.

You whine. You whine . You’ve never whined for a male in your life. There’s a first time for everything, you suppose. After all, you were sent here for research. A new experience such as this could certainly fall within that wheelhouse. Azriel was generously helping you with your research, exploring your capacity to keen for someone in desperation. You take in his capable hands, his broad shoulders and wings, his delicate lips. The fantasies flashing in your mind force you to confront your desire. It’s been brewing all night.

“I want you,” you speak with utter clarity.

That’s all it takes and he’s tossing back the rest of his drink, his hand sliding down to catch your arm, unwilling to break contact. And then he’s ushering you out of your chair, ever the gentleman, and rushing you through the crowd until you hit the fresh air, your feet on the cobblestone street for the barest moment before he sweeps you up again, one hand gripping your hip, the other placed firmly on your jaw. His breath comes in short pants as his flared eyes meet yours, again questioning, allowing you control.

In answer, you angle your head up to meet his mouth in a furious kiss. Your hands circle his neck, grasping his hair, blindly trying to find purchase as your lips connect. All your sensory experience fades save for the burn of his mouth on yours, and the feeling of his hands pressed to your body. You taste the lingering spice of the liquor you’d shared and beneath it, something earthier, the taste of him. You pour all your passion and need into the contact, and you feel the same charge from him. His ravenous kiss is a window to the tempest inside, his desperation evident in every move of his powerful jaw against yours.

When he pulls away, he’s panting hard, a grin threatening to overtake his majestic features, his lips swollen and shining in the starlight.

“We doing this on the street, or…?” you prompt breathlessly.

He takes in the thankfully deserted street outside the noisy club. “Good a place as any,” he shrugs.

You scrunch your nose and tug his hair. His laughter dissolves into a groan at your actions. “Fuck. You’re killing me,” he breathes.

“I’m about to,” you say, exasperated with the delicious male entangled with you.

“My place?” he asks. You nod quickly, in desperation for his touch as much as desire to get out of the public area. He hums again, “And here I was thinking that you Day Court fae were so much more open and shameless about these things.”

You scoff at his words.

“You’d better be worth the trouble,” you grumble, hiding your mirth. He flashes you the cockiest grin, and you’d smack him if you didn’t want to preserve his mouth’s function for better uses.

“Trust me, baby, I am.”

“Prove it.”

His eyes flash at your taunting. “Hold on,” he growls.

You swallow a scream as his wings extend, and his legs bend briefly before leaping into flight. His arms wrap tightly around your frame, and you cling to his neck fiercely. You recall your fantasy about his wings from earlier in the evening. As you soar into the night sky, you find yourself admiring them once more, their power and his deft command of them.

“I can’t believe you’re admiring me instead of the view.” His voice interrupts your thoughts.

“If I look at the view, we might be seeing some of that whiskey from earlier again,” you admit, your stomach dancing from so many different stimuli on your nervous system. The flying, the anticipation of sex, the sheer proximity with the stunning male who carried you now.

“We’re not far away,” he assures. Sure enough, when you risk looking away from his elegant, aerodynamic form, you see the city below rising into the cliffside where the court’s residence was perched.

You barely have a moment to take in the magnificent columns and lavish ornamentation of the palace balcony after he sets you down before he reconnects your lips. His blistering appetite sets your own aflame again, his hands sliding along your form, pausing briefly at your exposed midriff.

When he first appeared behind you in the bar, he had been gallant and polite, the perfect picture of a noble courtier. As you’d flirted over your drinks, his wry humor had surfaced, and now this unbridled passion had emerged. There certainly was more to the shadowsinger than met the eye. Your insides fluttered at the intimacy of your insight into the divine male who you were currently swapping spit with. You thanked the Mother that you’d dedicated yourself to flirting all these years in good faith, without ever knowing that your dedication would be rewarded in such fine form. Against your will, your mouth began to curve into a smile against his.

With backbreaking effort, you break away from his lips. He goes to follow your lips, but you stop him with a chaste kiss before pressing kisses along his jaw and down his throat.

“Sorry for the turbulence,” he gasps out as you continue your assault on his neck. “I needed us to get here. F-fast.”

Your only acknowledgement of his words is the flick of your tongue over the spot under his jaw you’d just marked. How considerate of him. Even when he’s melting beneath you, he maintains his manners. The devil inside you wonders what it would take for him to abandon his civility. Between kisses, you glance down to see his leathers barely restraining him. You figure you might not need an elaborate plot to find out after all.

He growls as you notice his arousal. You look up from the crook of his neck, and his expression turns your core molten, desire written plainly across his face. His hands had wandered down to your ass, where he now taps gently, urging you up into his strong arms. Your heart leaps as he picks you up, but he doesn’t take off flying this time. He carries you further into the interior, your legs coming to wrap around his midsection, your arms secured again around his neck. He’s holding you by your thighs like your weight is nothing, causing you to burn in anticipation of how he might throw you around later.

Fire throttles through your veins at the incessant touch of his wet lips on your neck. He’s dedicated to returning the favor of your vicious attack on him moments ago. You have no idea how he successfully navigates the hallways despite being buried under your jaw, for all you know he’s using your moans and whines to echolocate.

It’s a short trip, but right when you were about to beg for him to just take you in the hallway, he walks you into a simply furnished room with expansive windows and another balcony that offers a sweeping view of the city. Starlight streams in, painting the room and the male carrying you in a silver glow. The breathtaking midnight ambiance does nothing to distract the soldier currently working through your meager defenses via bruising open mouthed kisses to your collarbone. His fervor makes your skin dance, it's been a while since your body has received such attentions.

“Fuck, am I glad I caused a scene with that bastard earlier. Got your attention an’ all.” You mean it as a joke, but his expression darkens with reserved aggression.

“That was meant in jest,” you clarify.

“He was leering at you all night,” Azriel growls, between wet kisses to your neck. “I still might tear his throat out.”

His words go straight to your core.

“He’s long gone,” you force yourself to say casually, despite how his words affected you. Between that and his tongue, it’s a wonder you’re still stringing together coherent syllables. “How would you even find him?” you laugh, attempting to divert the male’s intensity.

He pulls away from your neck and gives you a pointed look. “It’s… kind of my job,” he says.

“Oh,” you say foolishly. Right. Azriel is the court’s Spymaster. He probably has his shadows tailing the bastard at this very moment to make sure he doesn’t bother anyone else. He could easily eliminate anyone he so chose. “Right.”

He shakes his head at your antics, finally walking you over to the bed. In your research, you never came across anything about shadowsingers, so you’re not sure if his shadows had read your mind – but he throws you on the bed exactly as you’d fantasized, powerfully and precisely, your body bouncing as you gasp in shock and delight before he follows you, crawling onto the bed to hover over you.

His wings flare slightly as his legs settle between yours, one of his knees hooking under your leg, exposing your clothed core to his every brush.

“Do you want me to kill him for you?” he purrs into your skin. You gasp, at his words as much as the twisted thrill they send through you. You look into his eyes, and slap his shoulder at the mischief you see in his expression. He laughs at your indignation.

“I would if you wanted me to,” he reiterates, an arrogant grin spreading across his face. “I might do it just because it seems like it would turn you on.” You gasp again at his words, face flushing in embarrassment. “No need to be embarrassed, baby.” He returns to placing lazy kisses along your neck as you moan beneath him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice heady. You almost can’t bear it. He’s making you feel so good with just his mouth on your neck. You’re not sure how you’ll survive the night.

Azriel must be determined to take you within an inch of your life, you think. His next dizzying move is to grab your hands from where they’d begun exploring his body to trap them above your head. To your relief, he ends his siege on your neck, instead serving slow torture as he reconnects your lips in a sensuous kiss, your body singing as you lay pinned beneath him. You feel his hard length press into your thigh. By his quiet moans, you recognize the same ardor he displayed earlier, though at an easier pace now that he has you where he wants you. That just wouldn’t do. He can’t have all that muscle mass just to keep it covered, poised tantalizingly out of sight above you.

He’s reading your mind again, you think, as his fingers toy with the hem of your top in silent question. You sit up rapidly, his quick reflexes narrowly avoiding your head colliding with his nose.

“Yes, please! Finally,” you nod, his laughter echoing in reply at your eagerness. “You want to help?” you ask. His face is flushed from your activities but you swear it deepens at your words. You raise your arms, allowing him to lift the silky black material from your form. He’s silent, starlight flashing on the dark expanse of his pupils, blown wide. You would be unnerved if it weren't for the way his chest is rising and falling dramatically, the hunger in his gaze, in his parted lips. You see him start to crisply fold the slim fabric before his brain kicks in and he throws it aside haphazardly. While you love a tidy male, you do prefer one with such a proper sense of priorities.

“Good boy,” you coo absently, preoccupied with absorbing every detail of his reaction to your lace clad chest.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he sighs finally, his eyes flickering to yours as his hands hover above your breasts. You bite your lip and grab his hands to connect them to your waiting chest.

“Touch me, Az. Don’t be shy with that mouth either,” you order as he scowls playfully, already palming your tits with zeal. You see his eyes widen as he feels them, specifically the bars in your nipples. His mouth falls open, and it's your turn to flash him a smug grin even as he has you writhing from just his rough hands playing with your chest.

“I’m not shy,” he grumbles brattily. You allow his attitude given how he quickly follows it up by placing his mouth back to your chest, this time exploring further from your collarbones, moving to skim the tops of your bra and the valley between your breasts.

“It’s not my fault you make me crazy,” he groans, his eyes glistening like the spit dangling deliciously between his mouth and your skin.

You just moan in response. How are you supposed to respond to that coherently? Especially as he cruelly pulls away for a brief moment to shrug off his vest, revealing the inked expanse of his chest and the curling hair trailed low on his stomach to disappear beneath his leathers.

“Can I taste you, baby?” Scratch that thought. How are you supposed to respond to that coherently? “Gonna let me make you feel good, huh?” Azriel begs, his voice thick with need. You nod, delirious at the mere suggestion.

“I need to hear your words, angel,” he smiles, seeing the fog in your eyes, needing to know it's all for the right reasons.

“Yes, Az. Yes, please,” you manage. He presses a quick kiss to your lips, humming in satisfaction, before moving his touches down your body.

He handles you like you’re the most cherished thing he’s ever beheld, but not like you’re fragile. You can’t remember the last time a male handled you with such awe and respect. You whine as he kisses your stomach, making your center melt. You’re sure you’re dripping at this point, but you can’t be bothered to feel embarrassment in the presence of the Illyrian kneeling before you in reverence, his mussed hair a dark halo, his leathers conspicuously strained at his crotch.

He tugs you to the edge of the bed, carefully situating you with a pillow as he kneels on the floor. You feel like a boxing dummy that he’s strategically setting up just to destroy.

“I’ve been looking forward to this all night,” he admits as he sets your knees over his shoulders, your feet kicking his wings lightly. You realize you haven’t even taken off your boots, you’re not even sure when he took his off, but as you go to mention your shoes and your skirt, he kisses the inside of your knee and the words die in your throat.

He rubs his hands over the tops of your thighs, pulling pretty moans from you as he kisses along the inside of your legs, towards where you need him most. You’re really not sure what his plan is with your skirt and underwear– until he dives right in, licking you over your clothed center, eliciting a garbled sound you hardly recognize as yours.

Your skirt is so short it offers no real barrier, except slightly obscuring the tip of his nose as it digs salaciously into your clit. A shadow curls around his ear, and he makes eye contact with you as he hikes your skirt up slightly, so you can see his every move.

“Eyes on me, angel,” he commands softly, and any response you might have had chokes and dies on your lips. He deftly hooks his fingers in your undergarments, aggressively pulling them to the side. And then his mouth is back on your core, and it’s an overwhelming sensation, his warm tongue licking a stripe up your center, then relaying to repeat the motion down to your opening. You grip the sheets in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. One of his hands strokes your thigh while the other keeps your wild hips pressed firmly into the mattress.

He pauses only to murmur soft praises as you tremble at his caresses. At this point you’re seriously concerned about your erotic future. What if this male ruins you for everyone else? What if you can never successfully pleasure yourself again? You know you’ll never be able to replicate the bliss he’s currently delivering. His mouth scorches you, he’s taken on a slow and steady rhythm, lapping and sucking, that’s unstringing your body from your soul. You’re not sure that you’ll ever recover. You’re grateful that you have no plans tomorrow because you’re not sure you’ll be able to walk. Maybe you’ll be able to roll yourself down the palace’s endless steps and to the library where one of the priestesses might take mercy on you and nurse you back to health. You could pay them by recounting this experience, surely this prime fuel for fantasy would equate to some kind of currency. With a generous exchange rate.

Your eyes shoot open as his mouth leaves you, your moans taking on a pained note at the visceral loss.

“Baby,” Azriel chides. “I asked you to keep your eyes on me.”

You hadn’t even realized you’d closed your eyes as you’d been calculating the exchange rate of sexual fantasy fodder to gold. You will yourself out of the delirium, but his glistening mouth isn’t helping.

“Stay with me, angel,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing encouraging circles on your inner thigh as you babble something rude about his upbringing while he takes the moment to slip your ruined undergarment down your legs.

He’d given up on holding you down, so you grind into his face as he resumes his merciless consumption of your molten pussy. The vibrations of his moans on your core multiply your pleasure delectably. The whole glorious sky of the Night Court seemingly flashes across your vision as he lowers his rough fingers to add pressure to your sensitive bud, swirling pleasure explosive as shooting stars.

“You taste so good, baby,” he praises. “This all for me?” he asks as he gathers your slick with his fingers before resuming his strokes. All you can do is moan helplessly in affirmation.

When he finally sucks your clit into his mouth, the pressure has you gasping, gripping his hair to anchor yourself to him, to the pleasure he’s delivering straight to your weeping core. He alternates between licking and sucking your clit while he teases you with his thick digits. He looks utterly engrossed, devoted to your trembling form, working you meticulously.

“Azriel,” you warn. Your breath quickens just before your body stills, broken noises escaping your lips, falling like a beautiful reward on his waiting ears. The release is more powerful than anything you’ve experienced in recent memory, rocking you to your teeth.

He works you through the aftershock of your orgasm, continuing to lick and thrust until your spasms quiet, your breathing calmed from its fervent staccato as he cleans you out.

“Hey, are you still with me?” he asks, concerned.

You realize you haven’t said anything and he’s been sitting rubbing the tops of your thighs softly while you come down from your high. Too tired for words, you bend to guide his head up to meet yours in a luxurious kiss. It invigorates you, languid as it is, his tongue exploring the backs of your teeth as he sucks in a long breath before moaning into your mouth.

His arms come to cup your face, dislodging one of your legs that remain thrown over his shoulder. It falls with a loud thud as your booted heel meets the floor, your limbs like lead. The sound makes him jump and pull away guiltily as he takes in your state of collapse.

“I’ve never been better,” you confess candidly.

He smiles at that, ruddiness in his cheeks deepening at your declaration.

“I can’t believe they let you walk free about the lands,” you continue, egging him on, shaking your head. “You’re a goddamn menace! That mouth should be regulated! I should have gotten security clearance to have that experience.”

He buries his head in your knee, his shoulders shaking in mirth as he hides from your praise. He kisses your knee and you curse the rubber feeling in your legs, wishing you could kick him for his insolence. Instead you pet the back of his neck, soaking in the sight of him between your legs.

You don’t know it, but he’s soaking in your image as much as you are his. You look ethereal splayed out above him, his shadows skirting around the silver light glowing on your scalp, creating a kinetic halo fit for a queen. In your bra and hiked up skirt, catching your breath on his bed, your vitality is on full display for Azriel’s keen eyes, your pulsing life form beating and raw to his senses. Even in your state of undress, your appearance is regal, striking in command above him. He feels his shadows writhing in excitement, thrilled with your energy, matching the gravitational anomaly in his gut.

Azriel is reminded of the gravity of battle, how for centuries he has waded through enemies time and time again in a familiar yet shapeless pattern of destruction. Despite the wrathful chaos, there’s a rhythm he’s come to anticipate. Amidst the waves of common soldiers, every division or so, he will fall into the gravity of a real threat, usually an enemy commander, an opportunity to face a real contender. Their paths of destruction will orbit briefly before colliding in gruesome ruin. He knows he’s been lucky to emerge in the land of the living after these conflicts.

At this moment, he’s strangely reminded of that repulsive kind of attraction, of power to power, as he once again faces a real contender. It’s a total inverse, yet your magnitude presents a similarly brilliant polarity. The aftershock of your pleasure is a welcome sequence compared to the grim aftermath of such a battle. He much prefers your sacred subversion of that profane impact. As you stroke his hair, it feels like redemption. It feels like his twisted history of bloodshed could be transformed and redeemed as justice under your tender hand.

He kisses your knee once more, blinking away the stinging in his eyes. His thoughts return to the present as you shift above him, sinking to his level on the carpet to capture his lips with a kiss once more. You hum, tasting yourself on him now that your senses have recovered from his euphoric torment.

The impatient male lifts you up effortlessly, and you let him stand the two of you, until he moves to take you back to the bed. You twist, and Azriel allows you to spin him so that you’re backing him towards the cushions. He groans into the kiss as your fingers brush his lower abdomen, skimming the edge of his leathers. You feel the reverberation of it in your own stomach.

“Are you going to let me return the favor?” you ask with a devilish grin. The sight of your soft tongue and sharp canines makes his wings twitch, willing his shadows to relax their riot, but they betray him. His eyes shine with need, breath hitching as you dip a finger under the waistband of his pants.

“I need to hear your words, angel,” you mimic his earlier words.

“Do your worst,” Azriel grunts, instantly regretting his words as he catches your wicked look.

You push his shoulders so he throws himself dramatically against the bed, wings flared slightly in anticipation. His mouth falls open as you move away from him, but his protests die as he sees you reach behind your torso to unclasp your bra, finally revealing your chest to him fully. His throat thickens, fists clenching in the sheets as you run your hands along your form, massaging your breasts, relieved to be unconstricted at last. The moonlight glitters on the jewelry in your hard nipples, attractively ornamenting some of your favorite features. Looking at the male barely restraining himself in front of you, you almost feel bad for how riled up he is.

Taking pity on the simmering Illyrian, you cut your strip tease short, planting a slow kiss on his lips before kneeling before him. If Azriel was concerned about your magnetism earlier, he’s certain it’s fatal now. Your fluffed hair, dislodged skirt, and bare chest all poised to drive him insane with want. When you finally slide his leathers down his thighs, he’s relying on his centuries of training to keep himself under control. The sight of his impressive length, swollen and rigid against his stomach, has your thighs clenching.

You stroke his upper thighs, kissing along the inside of his knees. His dick twitches as you wrap your hand around its swollen girth. Your first experimental tug elicits a deep stuttering groan from the male. His expression is almost flustered, skin flushed and damp. Despite the sweat you’ve both broken, it’s not doing anything for the chafing. Dissatisfied with the dry friction, you use your brain, quickly locating the nearest source of wetness, which happens to be between your legs. Azriel’s jaw looks like it's about to break from tension, his eyes wide as he follows your hand disappearing under your skimpy skirt. When you grip his cock again, it’s to spread the slickness along his member. You look up at him innocently as you continue pumping, finding a satisfying rhythm.

“You like that?” you ask teasingly.

“You’re gonna kill me, angel.” He can’t contain the shudder that racks his body at the image and sensation of your firm hand pumping his dick. He’s worried about losing brain function with the lack of blood circulating anywhere else in his body. His chest heaves, and he forces himself to focus on breathing regularly as you drag your hand up and down him, squeezing occasionally at the base. When you lick flat along the underside of his length, his wings flap in a brief frenzy.

“Just like that,” he cries.

You grin at his reactions, his broken moans and spasms only encouraging your actions. After he just rewrote your pussy’s worldview with his tongue, you’re delighted to serve him the same experience.

“You look so stunning on your knees for me.”

He grasps your scalp, keeping a light hold on your hair as you bend to place shallow licks at his head. His strangled groan has you wrapping your lips fully around his neglected tip.

“Fuck,” he exhales.

The salty musk of him fills your mouth as you breathe through your nose to focus on his sensitive head. You use your hand to pleasure him from the shaft as you suck lightly on the end of his cock, swirling your tongue. His moans of rapture send thrills through you. You look up at him, entranced by the pleasure written on his face. You bob your head, taking him in further, causing him to curse again. You don’t bother with taking all of him, you’re not trying to choke and die even on this divine dick, and your mouth is full as it is, tears threatening your waterline. Your saliva mixes with your slick, coating him, delivering layers of pleasure through Azriel, vibrating from his spine to his toes. The wetness of your mouth and the warmth of your hand ease him stroke by stroke into his ecstasy.

When Azriel feels his wings seize up and his toes begin to curl, he tightens his fist on the back of your neck, pulling you abruptly off of his cock. You glance back up at him, appreciating his delirious arousal, his flexing thighs. His inked chest shines, slick with exertion, his whole form sharpened into an enticing point fit just for you.

“Sorry,” he wheezes. “I didn’t want to finish like this, I want to feel you.”

You nod, biting your lip.

“This isn’t over,” you promise in a whisper to his furiously hard member, placing one last tender kiss at the base of his cock. He shudders at the abrupt touch, and you laugh at your own antics. His eyes shine with humor and lust.

“Come here,” he begs, pointlessly, since he pulls you up to his lap effortlessly, and you offer no resistance. Your bent knees rest on either side of his thighs, your cores separated by mere inches as you straddle him, your feet coming to rest against his shins. He presses kisses into your mouth, jaw, and collarbone in manic succession, your hands coming to tangle in his hair.

“Fuck. Don’t tease now,” you chastise him as his mouth finds your nipple, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud, your back arching instinctively into his touch.

“What do you want from me?” he retorts, continuing his biting caresses.

“I want you to fuck me, Azriel,” you order, emphasizing your words with a sharp tug on his dark locks. He snarls against your chest, hips bucking involuntarily.

“I thought you liked putting in some work, baby. You sure seemed to enjoy being on your knees for me just now,” he taunts.

“You need me to do the work, huh?” you muse, and his motions pause at your jab. “Fine by me,” you sigh, swiftly gripping his length and sliding over him before he can comment. His head whips up from your chest, fiery response dying in a whimper at the sensation. You notch him at your entrance, pausing to make sure he approves your actions.

He catches your look, but instead of replying he takes advantage of your hesitance to grab your hips and rub himself against your folds, both of you groaning at the delicious feeling of your collision.

“Come on, baby. If you’re so tough, have your way with me,” he coaxes, the brazen words lacking any real bite as he strains beneath you. With shaking hands, you reach between your bodies, your skirt ridden up again to fully expose your dripping core, where you finally guide him to your entrance. His head falls into your shoulder as you take him in, moaning noisily as you adjust to his size and girth.

“Shit,” you pant, overwhelmed on all fronts between his groans nuzzling into your neck, his strong hands grabbing at your hips, and his delicious length stuffing you so completely.

“Baby. Oh, angel,” he chokes, equally impaired with pleasure.

You shift your hips tentatively, gasping. He throws his head back in bliss, his hands tightening on your hips.

“You feel so good around me. You feel so good,” Azriel chants.

His eyes squeeze shut as he rides the waves of euphoria from you swiveling in his lap. As absorbed as he is with his own pleasure, he’s still acutely aware of your body’s every response. Your breathy whines and moans, your clenching walls, your stuttering hips. You find a rhythm rocking against him, not so much thrusting as grinding, but your choking walls and the spectacle of your chest bouncing in his line of sight are doing it for him just fine.

“That’s it. Use me, baby,” he urges, moaning filthy encouragements as you ride him.

When your hips start to falter, he coos in sympathy, seeing your frustrated need. He uses his hands to guide your hips over him, leaning back so he can angle thrusts to meet each motion.

Your body feels like it’s fully alive, awakened by his actions. He meets your urgency with an unrelenting pace. His concentration is dead set on where your bodies join, watching his cock disappearing into you over and over. He loves this feeling, of giving himself over to you, using his body to create pleasure instead of pain.

“Let me hear you. Is this what you needed, huh, baby?” he coaxes.

The familiar burning sensation builds in your abdomen. When he hears your cries pitch higher, your restraint spent, he knows you’re close. It takes all your concentration to meet his blistering kiss as he fucks into you at a frenzied pace. You cry into his mouth as one of his hands comes to circle your clit, sending waves of pleasure deep into your core. There isn’t an inch of your body unaffected by his assault. You feel the pull of pleasure even in your teeth as it burns in your thighs and licks up your spine.

The pressure in your core builds until one particularly hard thrust has you seeing stars behind your eyelids, bringing your release crashing over you.

He fucks you through it, concentration moving to your face, to see every stage of your satisfaction play out. The severity of his gaze only heightens your sensitivity as you ride out your second orgasm of the night. You might have to give him an award or something if he keeps this up. You’re still shaking when his hands release your hips to rest on your thighs, stroking them in reassurance while you catch your breath. You feel him still hard inside you. You’re not sure what else you’re in for tonight, but you know your tenure on top is just about over, your stamina exhausted. He must see it written on your face because a lazy grin spreads over his stupidly charming face, his thriving male ego on full display.

“Don’t start,” you blush.

“What? I didn’t say anything,” he laughs, looking at you playfully from under his eyelids. You see a shadow slipping away from his ear. The fuckers! Have they been informing him on your feelings all night, telling him exactly what will drive you crazy?

“Okay, big boy,” you drawl. “How about using that endless stamina for a good cause,” you suggest wolfishly, signalling that you’re not waving a white flag just because you got a little winded.

“Is this arrangement contingent on the boots staying on, or…?” he searches, quirking a brow, still stroking your thighs that rest atop his. Your heart leaps, you totally had forgotten that you were still half dressed. You’re still wearing your skirt– well, you suppose wearing would be a generous description, seeing how it had scrunched into a thin band at your waist– but your boots were decidedly still on your feet. You’re surprised that your aggressive physical activities hadn’t dislodged them.

“Yeah, sorry. Boots stay on,” you shrug, swallowing a laugh. “Why? Aren’t you into them?”

Azriel laughs at that, and the sound and its vibration remind you that he’s still very much buried inside you. You clench around him and he groans, capturing your hip with a hand as he twitches.

“I’m very much into them,” he sits up fully to murmur into your cheek, humor muted by his evident desire. “You look dead sexy. I just wonder if they might hinder our joint agility,” he begins tactfully.

You laugh at his diplomatic words, and he chuckles along.

“I can’t believe they didn’t come off!” you admit.

He laughs at that, and soon the two of you are reduced to howling tears at how long you’ve managed to keep your shoes on. He wipes his eyes, shaking his head and mumbling about what an inappropriate yet compelling endorsement you could make for the responsible cobbler, sending you into another fit as he lifts you off of him, perching you on the edge of the cushions.

He stands to pull the laces of your stomper boots, delicately slipping them from your feet, your socks following, his hands rubbing soothing patterns along your calves. His actions are innocent, yet the look in his eye is anything but. He looks ravenous, but he’s giving you a moment. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy this bit as much as what came next. Azriel just made you come twice and then belly laugh in quick succession. You know he’s fully employed too. He is turning out to be a man of many useful talents. This is dangerous territory.

“I am a little sad to see them go,” he sighs, jokingly, once your shoes were finally sitting on the floor next to him.

“You know, if you want me to wear them in your bed, you could just fly me all around the city so they never get dirty,” you joke from your position laid on the cushions. He rolls his eyes, but he’s beaming at you as he comes to stand between your thighs, and you can’t help but grin back. It’s been a while since you’ve had this much fun with someone. Nor is it lost on either of you that you’d just implied you might end up in his bed again. You don’t mind the admission, even as it hangs in the air. He’s a spymaster anyways, one way or another he’d figure out what you’re thinking.

“Noted,” is all he replies to that. “Lift your hips for me, angel.”

You feel your breathing hitch, affected in unladylike ways by his respectful words. You lift up slightly so he can slip your skirt down from your waist.

The simple movement dissolves the momentary limbo of your activities, and all the passion of the evening returns to you in full effect as you lay nude before him. He leans over you from where he stands, his hulking form and silhouetted wings imposing. His appetite is apparent, his massive length waiting and ready at his abdomen, angry at having been abused without satisfaction. Azriel has been fighting all night, you realize, and now he’s poised to claim his rightful glory.

You reach out to pull him towards you. As he crawls over you, his wings flutter shut, as if he means to tuck them safely behind his form for the rest of the night.

“Don’t you dare put those away!” you huff in frantic offense.

“What?”

“Your wings!” you exclaim.

“My wings?” he repeats.

“I’d like to look at them,” you request, quite nicely, you think, as he settles between your legs.

Azriel isn’t fooled by your innocent expression. He captures your lips in a bruising kiss, jaw working to claim every inch of fleshy territory. Without warning, his wings flare out, fanning your face with a rush. Your eyes shoot open to see your spoils, the leathery panes blocking the dim light from reaching your entwined forms. Heat rushes through you as you examine them, the thin veins and small scars whispering of stories he has yet to tell. His mouth works along your jaw as you revel in his illustrious form above you, fully claiming you into his world of shadows. He pauses by your ear, scraping his teeth along the sensitive shell before speaking lowly.

“You think wings and murder are sexy, you keep your boots on while you’re getting fucked… My girl is a freak.” Your heart soars at his words.

“Your girl?” you question. He freezes in his next kiss, ego vanishing, as if he’s not sure if he should be bashful. “I like it,” you declare. He pulls back to see the honesty of it in your eyes, and you know your face is sporting a twin banner of blush.

“Of course you do, you freak,” he says affectionately.

Your resounding grin fades into a groan as he runs a scarred hand up the inside of your thigh. He looks at you expectantly, the question in his eyes.

“I do think your wings are sexy,” you admit. He snorts, and you know that’s not the answer he was looking for.

“Are you planning to just lie there, perfect and naked on my bed all night, or are you going to let me fuck you properly?” he huffs out in desperation, not one to be outdone.

His hips grind against your thigh in emphasis. He is well and done with your larking.

“Well, gods, let me think about it, at least!” you shoot back mischievously.

You’re just toying with him now, but in your defense, he makes it so fun.

Azriel’s head falls to your shoulder, growling. But his gnarled hand vanishes from your thigh and his hips pause their motions. You feel a rush knowing that if you decided you were done, he would stop everything, despite his evident need. All night, he’s been so generous with his energy, from defending you back at the bar, to helping you get off as you struggled to ride him. Your pussy throbs at the power he’s offering up to your pleasure, freely and without expectation. You don’t quite know why you’re being mean, he certainly hasn’t earned it.

He looks up at you, his cheeks ruddy, his shining eyes searching, and you find your answer. It was simply empowering to see Azriel, a male usually so meticulous in his presentation, fall entirely apart for you. Everything about him was tantalizing, but watching him wield his historic power for your pleasure was the most grievous indulgence.

“Tell me,” he urges, seeing the whirl of emotions on your face.

“I need you inside me,” you relent.

His growl is the only warning you get before he sheathes himself inside you in one swift movement, relieved to obey your command. Groans fall from both your lips at the feeling of him pressed into you so spectacularly.

“Oh, oh , Az,” you revel in the feeling.

“That’s it, baby,” Azriel coaxes.

He eases you into it with gentle thrusts, placing kisses down your chest. His pace is slow, languid, like he wants to take his time with you, tearing you apart with precision, thrust by thrust. His hands clutch your hips in an attempt to still your thrashing.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he coos.

Your hands are all over, his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to move, move, move. He blows a hot exhale across your breasts where he’s been occupied, steadying himself mentally before looking into your face. What you see only fuels you further. In his gaze is raw desire, desire that he’s keeping carefully controlled as he gives you what he thinks you need. Even buried inside you, he reigns himself in, commanding his passion in preservation of your comfort. His mind is screaming at him to drive faster, so much so that it drowns out your sounds of agreement in his ears. His slow strokes are a torment to you both, a needless sacrifice on his end.

Typically, you might appreciate how considerate he was being. But also, typically, you didn’t have a male buried inside you while you claw at whatever part of his largeness you can reach. What you need right now isn’t his courtesy, what you need is the full force of his passion, unchecked, to do battle with your own. You aren’t used to settling for less than what you want, so everything in you feels confident when you pull his face up to yours, noses brushing as he gasps into your open mouth.

“Az. I need more,” you state clearly. His hooded eyes flare as he finally sees the enormity of your fervor, how it matches perfectly blow for blow with his own.

“Hold on,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to your mouth in acknowledgement.

You don’t know if he means it literally or not, but you’re taking no chances as you cling to him. He pulls out slightly more, just enough to give him room to angle your leg up, his muscled arm holding your bent knee, allowing his hips unfettered access to your center. The shift has you whining against him, writhing as he gives you exactly what you asked for. You’ve never felt anyone so deep inside you, kindling that burn so deliciously.

And then he’s pounding into you at full charge.

“Come on, baby, give it to me,” he gasps.

In the throes of your pleasure, you note how his chest heaves, though the steadily punishing pace of his hips never falters. Your legs are numb in some places where you had feeling earlier. You chase your high together in an uphill battle, both worn and equally dedicated to seeing this through to its fateful conclusion.

“Doing so good for me, angel,” he encourages, and you mumble curses at his tender tone while he sets a brutal rhythm on your cunt. Your hot breath mingles, his forehead pressed to yours, like he needs every part of you to be connected, like when he draws out of you, he’s acutely pained for that moment it takes before he’s enveloped by you again. Watching him is intoxicating. Raw, starved agony tightens the elegant planes of his face as your leg scrapes lightly against the edge of his wing over his shoulder, and he shudders.

The contact evidently rouses something deep within him, his shadows writhing impishly along his wings. They slip invisibly over his shoulders, under the canopy of his wings to trace infuriatingly over your torso. One ravishes your breast, phantom pleasure coursing down to meet the brimming well of your desire. Their delight at your convulsing form under their ghostly caress is only matched by Azriel’s own fixation. His stare borders on obsessed, eyes blown out. He blinks, failing to clear his carnal fixation, pressing a maddening kiss to your mouth in drunken bliss, muttering your name like a prayer.

“That feel good, baby?” he grunts.

“Yes, Azriel, please,” you cry, not even sure what you’re asking for.

His pace is ruthless, and, far from quieting your own ache, it's successfully unpinning your every inhibition. It's as if his shadows are scouting every crevice of your being to shake out a thrill from any and every forgotten corner. Something shakes loose deep inside your chest as his brutal magnetism pulls pleasure from you. You set it aside to focus on the ecstasy being painstakingly, greedily delivered to your drenched core. You moan his name at the heat pulsing through you.

Azriel looks fucked out, his brows slick with tension and his mouth gaping as he absorbs you with equal adoration. You see your own need reflected in his face, and you feel like you’ve taken a hand mirror into a reflecting pool for how endlessly your bliss echoes between you. It’s mind bending, how it drives you crazy knowing he’s crazy for how he drives you crazy– you could almost laugh at the absurdity of it if you had any remaining breath. And if it didn’t feel so riveting, the symmetry of your hunger.

“I’m close,” you hiccup, body heavy with expectation, the smoldering heat growing to a fever pitch as he pummels you.

“I’m with you, baby. I’m right here with you,” he gasps.

One of his hands snakes down to encourage your clit with tight, fast circles. His attention, though, is on your face, watching the way elation plays across your features. The added sensation sends you over the edge, your third release blowing through you in scalding waves.

You cry out as your orgasm staggers you, hands blindly tugging his hair, holding him to you as you shatter. The pulsing grip of your cunt pulls him along the edge as he works you with quick thrusts.

At the sharp scrape of your nails on his scalp, his own pleasure snaps, waves of bliss cresting over you both in lock step, smoothing twin grooves of delight in your souls. He fucks you through it, his face buried in the side of your neck, his kiss biting with teeth as he tries messily to stifle his groans. The guttural noise of his cries shakes the room, your own heartbeat barely perceptible in its wake. When the quaking stops, he slumps down over you, totally spent.

You lay there in a daze for gods know how long, struggling for air together. He presses kisses into your shoulder until your cries quiet down and your breathing comes more easily. Azriel has definitely fucked before, so he doesn’t know why his heart is beating so wildly at this encounter, why he’s still greedily tasting your skin, why he’s so reluctant to pull out of you. When he feels like he has it under control, he peeks his head out from your neck. A grin is plastered on his gorgeous face, his hair sticking up in a stupidly charming fashion, his eyes shining with frightening levels of energy and mirth despite his limp form atop you.

“I can’t believe I found you in a gay bar,” he states. You flick his ear, nose scrunching at his audacity.

“You are ridiculous. Is that really all you have to say?” you accuse breathlessly, still gone soft in a delicious haze.

Azriel chuckles, shifting over you, so that his head hovers over yours again.

“No,” he says carefully. He slides his hand to move yours from his hair, bringing it to rest on the cushions above your head, his fingers twining with yours. Your brows furrow at the delicate gesture, you’d blush if he wasn’t literally inside you still.

“I just thought ‘holy fuck, please marry me?’ might be a little intense to lead with,” he offers, and what you see dancing in his eyes holds too much gravity to be mistaken for pure humor.

Your insides flutter again at his words, dumbfounded.

He means it as a joke, but there’s something in his eyes you wouldn’t mind waking up to every day for the rest of your life that feels dangerous. This was a fun, sexy adventure with a fun, oversized Illyrian, you rationalize. You’d reassess that flicker in your chest again after you were fed, rested, and bathed.

Azriel has similar ideas it seems. He slips out of you, your body protesting at the loss. He must sense this because he places a mollifying kiss to your stomach as he gets up from the bed. He returns shortly to find you still splayed out in total content, and hands you a tall glass of cool water. You didn’t realize how parched you were until you drank half the glass in several gulps, refreshing your dry throat. Azriel appears again with some towels.

He takes the glass when you offer it back, but instead of setting it aside he brings it to his own lips, finishing it off in one long drink. Your mouth goes dry again at the sight. You’re well and truly fucked if the sight of him finishing your water gets you excited. It’s not like you hadn’t just swapped spit with him in more exciting ways. You’re certain he notices you staring, but he doesn’t comment.

“Can I clean you up? Or do you want to…” he gently motions with the damp towel once he’s done torturing you with his pornographic drinking. You allow him to wipe you down, his gentle motions confident and efficient. It makes your body hum in a new way, how he handles you with casual reverence, hands skimming your flesh to check for tender spots before he cleanses there. You see your own glow reflected in him, one of utter contentment.

He crawls onto the bed with you, pulling back the blankets and cushions around you in a swaddled sort of cocoon before settling on your chest, his arms wrapping around you, wings coming to rest on either side of your form. You brush his wild hair from his forehead, and he hums as he nudges his head more firmly into your palm. He lets loose a long sigh when you brush your hands through his dark locks, eyes closing in contentment. His sore muscles loosen as he curls into you. It’s a powerful image, the hulking Illyrian sprawled lazily atop you in utter calm.

“Bed time,” he declares, much to your amusement. His nose brushes your sternum, and he sleepily kisses your skin before cracking a yawn. His swirling shadows quiet as he drops his guard for the night. Your eyelids begin to sink, despite your determination to memorize your position tangled with him. You swear you hear a whisper in the dark, a wordless plea in your ear, stay . Not that you have much choice with his bulky form practically trapping you against his bed.

“Good night, Azriel,” you murmur.

Sleep must have taken you seamlessly after that because next thing you know, the cool light of dawn is streaming in his open windows, illuminating the peaceful figure still resting on your chest. You wonder what the protocol for this is, if he expects you to slip out before he awakes. On your occasional hook ups, you’d never slept over before. Usually you would have left after, or woken up in the night and skipped. This time, you didn’t have the same avoidant fear marching you out the door.

In the night, Azriel had shifted, so now he lay with only one leg slotted between yours, his grip on your waist loosened. You try adjusting your back so that your head can lay more comfortably on his pillow– his soft and supple pillow, you note. His grip tightens on your waist at your movements, his brows furrowing in irritation in his sleep.

A grin blooms on your lips at his unconscious gesture. You relax into his large bed, pride singing in your veins. He was certainly decisive about your spending the night, and now with the prospect of a quiet, intimate morning before you... You know it was an involuntary movement, but all the same. You’re starting to think he might be into you. And you’re definitely into his mattress, you muse, closing your eyes to submit to the allure of his plush bed. Though it’s his pleasant weight resting over you that really lulls you into sleep.

When you wake up later in the full light of morning, you find Azriel watching you with appreciation.

“Good morning,” you mumble, feeling your face flush.

“Good morning,” he agrees, his voice rough with sleep, pulling you into his chest.

Your muscles protest, still sore, but it's a pleasant sting, you decide as you relax into him. You could spend all morning like this, wrapped in his strong arms.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks sweetly.

You nod, sleepily praising how comfortable his bed is. He’s shifted to press you against his firm chest, his hand coming to rest on your back. As you shift to nuzzle into his shoulder, you feel his half hard cock digging into your hip. His words from the night before rise to mind amid the heated memories of your shared activities. My girl , he’d called you. You figure you should act like it. If you work this right, this could be the first of many mornings spent in his bed.

You press your hips into his growing erection, and his eyes flash in warning. The sleep fades from his gaze as his hand at your back holds you in place against him.

You begin meaningfully, “I don’t have any plans today–”

“Thank the Mother!” Azriel growls, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. Warmth flares in your chest at his eagerness. Little do you know how Azriel is plotting similar schemes even as you lose yourselves to the magnetic bliss of your connection. You’d always been a flirt, but it had never earned you such a glorious reward.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” you ask teasingly.

“You know I did.”

“Well don’t push yourself now, I don’t expect you to be able to outdo last night,” you sigh mockingly.

His expression unnerves you, the challenge registering on his face in a slow, wickedly sensual smile.

“Oh, but I intend to.”

A/N: THANKS FOR READING!! This is the first fic I’ve ever "published"! I really enjoyed writing Azriel, he’s fun to play with. Also yeah maybe I implied that they were soulmates cause I am a lover and casual isn’t in my vocabulary, baby! Let me know what you think, I meant it to be flirty and then smutty and then it became kinda sweet, so hopefully you enjoyed the ride :) Let me know if you want part 2 ??

#pls comment if you enjoyed reading #and if you didnt enjoy reading #keep that shit to yourself baby #azriel smut #azriel fic #azriel #azriel x reader #acotar #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #upon reflection #i think the title is stupid #but i think its funny so #here we are #ao3 saw it firstttt :P #my writing

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whore-ibly-hot · 8 months ago

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THROUGH OUR LORD AND SAVIOR @yanderereblogs THE FACULTY HAVE BEEN FOYND AND RETURNED TO US! PRAISE BE TO REBLOGGERS, SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL ARCHIVISTS!

Yandere Boarding School Part 2, (Faculty)

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Multiple yanderes, non-con touching, dub-con, perverted thoughts, obsession, bullying, masturbation, aphrodisiacs, general perversion, dry-humping, voyeurism, controlling behaviors, typical yandere stuff, breeding, smoking, horny posting.

(AN: Part Two has been reuploaded after a takedown, godspeed @yanderereblogs for saving it! Mmmmmm, old men. Everyone pictured as a student is OF LEGAL AGE TUMBLR MODS HOP OFF MY DICK.

Background: Thinking about a Headmasters Son or Daughter!Reader at a private boarding school. For a Fem!Reader, perhaps you're just visiting daddy for the season while he's running the school, or maybe you've been bad, and need more supervision. For a Masc!Reader, it could be the same case, however, with Ridgemoore Academy being an all male school, this makes it easier to imagine a world where reader is allowed in the school. Now, let's focus on the faculty...

◇ Mr. Joel Murphy, who teaches the majority of the 'life skills' classes at the school. The school being all-boys is very traditional, and teaches things like game hunting and orienteering, which is why they hired a manly-man like Joel. If only they knew what a bitter grump he is. An ex-sheriff of the nearby town, he decided to leave the force after realizing there was no real crime in the small, privileged town, and decided to take up an easy job at the school. Unfortunately, he realized his love for camping and hunting is warped into what he considers 'frilly shit for rich little boys'. He's gruff, barking out orders and easily been exasperated at the sheer incompetence of the boys.

"Shoot one quail, and these boys act like they killed a bear..."

He thought about retiring from yet another job, as living on the ritzy campus just doesn't feel like home to him, and lord knows he's not fond of his job. However, things change when you arrive. Whether you're a delinquent or a little more sweet and obedient, he likes you. If you're a delinquent, he likes seeing a little hell-raiser kick up some shit at the fancy school. If you're sweet or shy, he gets protective. Nice youngins' like you shouldn't be thrown in amongst these spoiled weasels.

He's sure to help you if you need it, a gentle hand on your back as his burly chest presses against your shoulder blades, adjusting your position against the butt of a rifle. Standing by while you're on hands and knees trying to light a fire, making sure none of the boys are trying to get a look at your assessts. Not that he isn't going to, but he justifies it to himself as just making sure your school shorts/skirt is regulation. He's protecting your modesty. After class hours, come to him with any issues, or shit, even his room. He'll put on some coffee and ask you to help him create a curriculum that 'reaches the kids', as your father instructed him to. It's cozy, the fancy school adnorments thrown away for medals and plaques, national parks posters and a few old family photos. He'll keep you tucked in on his warm couch while he strays from curriculum talk to stories of his time in the scouts and on the force. Tells you about how much he loves just... laying out under the stars with somebody special, to sit around a campfire with friends, then slyly ask is you've ever had somebody to do that with. He knows you're younger than him, and he struggles with the idea that you won't want him cause of it, so for now, he'll bask in the feeling of seeing you curled up in his room, keeping the idea of picking you up and having you accept his cock to himself. If you can get pregnant, his fists his cock to the thought of that too. He's not some horned up boy, he wants you in the long term.

He looooooves the yearly orienteering final, in which the students in the class are made to go on an actual camping trip. It's possible a tent will 'accidentally' go missing, leaving you to bunk with him. Don't worry, nothing bads gonna happen while you've got this burly bear of a man practically spooning you, warm gut from his dad-bod pressed against you as he tries his best to make sure he doesn't scare you.

"Sorry those damn boys left your tent back at the school, kiddo. I... wouldn't be suprised of one of them did it on purpose, little bastards." He grumbles, hoping you'll take the hint to separate yourself from those immature preps and stick to being with a man who can treat you right. "Remember that lesson from a couple weeks ago, on body heat? I know it's awkward, but we've only got one sleeping bag. You feel like you can trust this old man to keep you warm?" Unfortunately for his ego and trying to keep down his urges, the trees aren't going to be the only wood in the morning.

◇ Mr. Paul Burton, head of the arts department. He's so over this, a once decent artist who dabbled in pop art and theatre only to stop getting gigs and be black-listed after offending several more famous artists, calling their work 'sell-out chic', he's now a burn-out who smokes and ignores his students all class. He's passionate about art, but frankly he doesn't want tow aste his time teaching when he knows these rats are taking his class for easy credit. He's only teaching here to utilize the facilities and studios so he's not living in a van in the Walmart parking lot. A mix of hippie culture, live and let live and cynical burnout, he's so. Fucking. Done. But... maybe you change that for him.

You're interesting, a headmasters child who doesn't fit in to your fathers perfect mold? Maybe a rebellious student who goes against the grain of this perfect school. Or a blooming ray of sunshine in this dark den of privilege and conformist curriculum for the future lawyers of the world. Either way, he's found a new muse. See him after class.

He'll be thrilled if you're into art, let him guide you. Tell him your favorite artists and he'll tell you when he threw up on there shoes by accident in his hey-day. Gossip about a student you don't like, he'll listen while he smokes and tell you about how that guys mom hit on him. He loves to gossip, but he loves to watch you create more. The way your hands shape a vase or brush across a canvas light a fire in him he hasn't felt in a while. He's more willing to forgo the age gap between you, while it's never something he considered before, he knows he's not gonna let go of the one thing that makes him feel like he lives again. Besides, he's always been unconventional.

He'll have you stay after class, maybe he'll have you pose nude for a painting, assuring you it's fins, it's platonic, it's just for the love of art. He chooses and extra large canvas, it lets him paint while he relieves himself as you explain you're getting cold. He'll put on some artsy, silent, black and white film from the 30s, and while you watch and slowly realize it's pornographic, He'll grin to himself while he watches you flush. He'll ask you all sorts of questions about your thoughts on the film, the actors, what they're doing. He really wants to figure out how experienced you are. "What do you think of the composition? It's really carnal, you know?" He puts out his cigarette. "I'm glad I can show this to you, you'll actually appreciate it. You're not giggling like an idiot when some guys penis is out on the screen." He groans, thinking of his other students.

He does actually like one student, though they make an odd pair. Joseph's easily spooked and shy personality clashes with the brash older man's, but he's glad to have someone he can think of as a protege. Someone who loves art as much as him, but get isolated for it. He was doing a portfolio look over when Joseph accidentally turned in the wrong folder. Joseph feels like he might die as Mr. Burton, a man he admires, flips through nude pictures of the object of his affection, and at a distance no less. A part of him wants to rip it away, but he needs this scholarship.

"Please, please, sir! I-I'll never do it again, it was just a phase, I didn't mean for you to see-"

"They're good." Mr. Burton flips through the folder. "Real good. You could really get somewhere with these, maybe not in the fine art scene, but... tell you what." He adjusts his glasses and leans forward on his desk. "We'll do a special session, you and me, yeah? I'll get your friend here, and I'll vouch for your integrity so you can take some less-" he purses his lips. "Stalker-ish pics- Jesus, kid, is that taken from a tree?"

☆ Anatoli Sidorov, probably the best paid staff given how they got him here. He's a Russian coach for a former Olympic Russian swim team, and he joined the prestigious American school to escape shame after he 'resigned' post a doping scandal which he swears he wasn't involved in. (Whether he was or not is your choice.) Still, he's led the boys swim team and track team to nationals several times, and he's a legend among the wealthy benefactors of the school. He's outwardly very serious, hard on his team but respectful of them. He doesn't put up with any unruly or unsportsmanlike behavior from his boys, at least not what he can see. He's very nice deep down, intellectual and funny, though he still struggles with American humor and English.

He adores you when he meets you, milking about with the other students before class. You seem genuinely social, and wanting to fit in. The idea someone could be so welcoming warms his heart. Deep down, he misses his home, and he misses the friends he once had. You're warm, and he likes that. Not to mention, you're a looker. He's embarrassed, especially if you're male, seeing as he never considered swinging the other way, and much less with someone younger. But he can't help but stare when your pretty tits bounce as you run, or the way those jogging shorts hardly conceal your bulge. He even pulled you to the side one to scold you for not wearing regulation gym clothes, before realizing they were and awkwardly sending you back into class. That was a moment of self-reflection for him.

He's not necessarily outwardly softer to you, you might even think he doesn't like you, given that he has you stay late to run or jump rope, or constantly pulls you into time out mid-game. It's all for your own good, trust him. He doesn't like the way some of the boys were looking at you, and he could tell Evan was a only a play away from trying to practically hump you while trying to 'get the ball'. He's made Harrison, who he loves as a player, run laps for talking to you for only a few minutes. He hates feeling like a jealous boy, but he can't help it. You make him feel young.

He establishes a private locker room area for you, since you're the headmasters kid and not an official student. Besides, you're clearly being harassed by the others! So, he's got a nice little closet for you, with a not suspicious air freshener that's not a hidden camera, and a private key only you have access to. (Technically that's true, he just has a bypass key for himself.) He'll snatch a pair of boxers or some panties, slipping them into his track coat for later. Eventually, he'll tell you he's worried you aren't able to catch up to the others, given that you arrived later and started the gym curriculum later than the others. He'll start having extra 'make-up' workouts with you, starting with stretching. One leg uo on the bar, you'll have to excuses his cold hand running along your thigh, or stroking over your chest as him just admiring how your strength and flexibility is evolving. He relishes the feeling of your body on his, groping you under the guise of training and resisting the urge to just slip aside your gym shorts and veg you to take him.

"Little star, part 'dem a little, there ve go." He keeps your legs parted as he works you into a position on your back, against the rubber mats the tumbling team had laid out. He lays just over you, pushing your legs back a little further with his arms, just far away enough to keep you from noticing his hard on, but enough to lightly press it against the plush swell of your ass. Good, let's just- fuck- hold. Let's hold."

☆ Kory Koffman, English teacher and part time librarian! The school outs so much effort into sports, both admin and students seem to forget about him. Hell, the library is used so little they fired the librarian, and he took it upon himself to try and care for the building himself. He's a sweet, shy man, who just wants to share his passion for literature with others. However, unlike Mr. Burton, he was never popular or famous, so he's content to keep to himself, but the loneliness does get to him.

When you wandered into his library one day, maybe looking for a book or seeking refuge from a hoarde ofadmirers, he was happy to welcome you into his little safe haven. He'll give you some warm tea from the little coffee machine he has set up, and sit you down. Let him help you find a book, or tell you about his creative writing class? He'd let you join, even late in the semester! It's not a very full class.

For the first time in his life, he finds himself craving the attention of another, of someone else's company, other than his books. He hasn't felt that need for connection since he was a boy, after his momma passed. He'll do anything to keep you there, and if reading isn't your thing, much to his chagrin, he'll add a DVD section to the library, but only good films and classic for you! No Adam Sandler, those movies are to overstimulating for poor Mr. Koffman.

As his feelings turn romantic, he's ashamed. You're a student, and he's a lonely old man, you deserve someone better, someone your age. However, the thought of you being with any of the many students who mock him in the halls or disrupt his class, the thought of hand you over to those-those imbeciles, hurts him. He wants you, and he's ashamed at the way his trousers go tight when you bend over to get a fallen book, or when you hand him his glasses after he misplaced them (again), the fact he just stares at your finger prints for awhile and refuses to clean the lens. He's not had sex in a long, long time, but he finds himself masturbating more than he ever did when he was younger. He'll watch library security footage openly, moaning and whimpering at his desk with no fear anybody will stop in, no one ever does but you. He wants you as his spouse, you already make his library, his home away from home seem brighter, imagine what you could do for his actual apartment.

"Oh, hello! It's good to see you, it's been a bit." He's a little bitter at that last statement, but adjusts his glasses and continues. "Just remember to stop by often, okay? I'd really, really hate to impose the late policy on you..."

☆ Atticus Critch, the schools latin instructor and head sponsor of student body, (not to mention the man in charge of detention), is a strict disciplinarian. He takes no nonsense from anyone, and despises the behavioral pardons given to boys like Evan or Harrison simply because they are athletes. Peter is obviously his favorite, and when he catches wind of the ways the boys around campus are speaking about you, he decides to take it upon himself to remove the distraction, by having Carter trail you and give you detention for minor inconveniences. Carter isn't particularly thrilled at always having to send you to detention instead of extorting you to get his rocks off, but he's hoping maybe he'll get to 'monitor' detention one of these days.

Initially, Mr. Critch has you doing small tasks, writing lines or organizing things, but soon he starts to see the appeal. If you're a good student for the most part, he's determined to keep you good, and away from all the vermin in this school. If you're bad, he's had plenty of experience in taming brats. He's open with his sexual desires, it his growing affection for you that makes him struggle.

If you've stayed out too late and broke curfew, you can spend detention on your knees, suckling his cock into the late hours. Maybe you've been running around with Tyler. He'll make you lay down on his desk and deny you your climax over and over again, asking 'if not making you cum' is what that boy does to you, never fully satisfying you. He'll make you beg to finish, and to promise you'll be good from now on.

"Come on, repeat it. Tell me you'll be good now, that you won't bother with BOYS-" He annuciates with a thrust, "When you have a man right here, whose willing to take time out of his day to discipline you!" One the amorous session is over though, he definitely softens, trying to prove he's more than a boy in many ways, including good aftercare. He'll dress your limp form back up in your uniform and walk you get you a cup of water from the fountain. "Only ten minutes till your detention is over, dear. Just sit there, take some time to reflect on how you got here." His tone is demeaning, but as he pets your scalp, his touch is so feather-light. Don't expect is to last into the next day though.

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